


It's Always Six PM Somewhere

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Crack(ish), Fluff, HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE, Hurt/Comfort, IKEA - Freeform, M/M, The Gayng™ and Their Shenanigans, mettaton more like MESSaton ahahaha amiright, papyrus being a sweetheart but what else is new tbh, theres some angst in there too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead, he says, rather sardonically, "Alright, sure. Why don't we make a reality TV program while we're at it? <i>‘This week, on </i>The MTT Show<i>: how to be a healthy and high-functioning adult, and just in time for the holiday season, too!'"</i></p><p>Papyrus beams at him. "Yes, that's <i>exactly</i> what I'm talking about!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i read [thesketcherlass's post](http://thesketcherlass.tumblr.com/post/134555263994/i-saw-your-tags-in-the-responsible-adultgrown) about "secretly-a-fucking-loser-with-no-shame-in-life!Mettaton + frustrated-functioning-adult!Papyrus" and that's p much what inspired this whole thing
> 
> (listen i swear i told myself like at least 12 times that i wouldn't write for undertale and yet here i am, sinning,)

There are uncapped dry erase markers strewn about on the carpet, an empty bowl of ramen noodles on the couch cushion, and a standing whiteboard that Undyne is stationed by, to which she's jabbing aggressively at the complex (and intangible) cause-and-effect graph she's chicken-scratched onto it.

"Jesus Christ, Alphys, Homura _literally_ states that she's in love with Madoka," she's saying. "Explain to me how that gay damn ass shit doesn't fit the definition of a yuri. Explain to me _HOW,_ ALPHYS."

"I know, I know," Alphys says soothingly, putting her hands up to signal her lack of desire for hostility, "but yuri generally has a much more, um, ph-physical connotation to it, i-if you know what I mean? I just can't really think of it as a yuri when there aren't even any girls kissing."

 _"Kiss kiss fall in love!"_ Alphys' hoodie pocket sings, suddenly, slicing off their substantial conversation, and Alphys startles in surprise before digging for her cell phone. She takes note of the word _'Toriel'_ on the screen before holding up a finger to Undyne to communicate that this discussion isn't over, that she can argue about girl love all day long, and then she answers the call:

"Hello?"

_"Oh, hello, Dr. Alphys! How are you?"_

"Well, um," Alphys replies with a slight twitter of a giggle, "I-I don't have the title of Dr. just yet, I'm only an intern, keep in mind, but um. Yeah, I'm good. How are you?"

_"I am good, thank you. And, oh, close enough! You are so close to graduating, after all."_

"Y-Yeah, I guess that's true, thank god." Alphys picks up the microwaveable bowl and tosses it into the miniature plastic trash can they keep in the living room, to which she misses and winces when Undyne whisper-yells _"Oh my god? You're so lame?!"_ at her and places the bowl in its rightful home herself.

_"It is indeed. Anyhow, I am so terribly sorry to ask this of you, because I am sure you have a busy schedule, but if it's at all possible, do you think you could babysit Frisk for me tomorrow from, say, five to nine? I have parent-teacher conferences to attend all throughout tomorrow evening, and no one to watch them."_

"Oh, y-yes, of course!" Alphys says, smiling at Undyne's inquiring gaze. "We're always more than happy to spend time with Frisk!"

_"Oh, that is such a relief, you have no idea. Thank you both so much."_

"Psh, it's no problem," Alphys says, and then they exchange goodbyes and more thank yous and you're welcomes before hanging up.

"We're babysitting Frisk tomorrow night," she tells Undyne.

"Yeah, I derived as much, but, uh. Weren't we supposed to go over to Mettaton's place tomorrow night?"

Alphys deflates a little. "Oh. Shoot. That's right."

"I mean, that's not really a problem, is it? Just tell him you'll go over to his place the day after tomorrow."

Alphys shakes her head. "Tomorrow's the only day of the week he doesn't have a show in the evening, and I'm at the lab all day. And if I tell him that I'll come fix the stuff next week - god, come to think of it, I don't even remember what he _broke -_ he'll get really passive aggressive and, like. Y'know that one I told him I couldn't attend one of his opening nights because I had interning work to do and he strode in here uninvited and pushed all my work off my desk with his leg and then waltzed right back out without a word? That's pretty tame, compared to what he does when he's _genuinely_ mad at me."

"Damn. Well, uh. Why don't you just go, and I'll stay here with Frisk?"

"L-Last time we tried that, Undyne, you started a kitchen fire."

Undyne narrows her eyes. "That's true." She takes a moment to think. "I can call Papyrus and ask if he wants to stay here with me and Frisk and help out?"

"I-I'm not sure that's much better?"

Undyne shrugs. "'S better than trusting me to be by myself."

Alphys considers that. "It... _is_ the best option we have available, I guess," she sighs. "O-Okay, okay, go ahead and call him. I'll just finish up at Mettaton's place as quickly as possible and rush back here. Just, um. Just promise me you guys won't try to cook anything?"

Undyne laughs, open-mouthed with her head thrown back. "Babe, you worry too much. When me and Pap work together, our cooking is _fantastic._ We both have such punk-ass ideas for recipes that they really compliment each other, y'know? It's awesome. We're awesome. _Man,_ I love that goober."

 _Recipes like trying to see if our oven can go up to 9,000_ ° _F?_ Alphys thinks, but doesn't bother to mention that dark memory.

"Anyways." Undyne collapses on the couch next to her and whips out her phone from her back pocket. She taps something into the screen and puts the phone on speaker so Alphys can hear, too.

_"Undyne! What a pleasant surprise! Hello!"_

"Hey, Papyrus, I need you to be here at our place tomorrow night at five. Undyne has to go over to Mettaton's apartment and we have to watch Frisk and Alphys doesn't trust me to, like, not murder our house."

There's a pause. _"As much as I would love to help out with the small human, I'm afraid I will have to decline. As a matter of fact, I was planning on visiting Mettaton tomorrow night as well. I mean. He doesn't know about it yet, but. I digress."_

Undyne groans into the receiver.

 _"Why don't all three of us go to his apartment, and bring Frisk with us?"_ Papyrus suggests, and Undyne perks up again.

"That's...not a bad idea, actually. Yeah, shit, let's just do that. Deliver the message for me, will you?"

 

* * *

 

 

Hours after the exchange, Mettaton's doorbell rings.

The digital clock on the oven reads 3:03 AM. There's a rerun of _America's Next Top Model_ trilling from the television, an empty box of some colorful brand-name cereal on the coffee table, dishes piled in the kitchen because Alphys _still_ hasn't gotten around to helping him fix his kitchen sink (after _two days!)_. Mettaton glances, panicky, at the door, and then at the mirror hanging on the wall parallel to him.

_Oh. My god._

There's a charcoal smudge of eyeliner and black powder smeared all over the right side of his face from when he'd forgotten that he was still wearing stage makeup and rubbed tiredly at his eyes; his hair is disheveled and matted and greasy with hair product and dried sweat from the night's performance, and his concealer is shiny and pasty on his skin in the way it is when you keep it on for too long and through too much trauma.

It's three o'clock in the morning. Whoever is at the door can wait until a decent time in the morning, especially since he's like. Like _this._

The doorbell rings again.

Mettaton ignores it (fearfully) and winces as he drags his eyes away from the mirror (also fearfully).

Seconds pass. Digital lights flash across the night-black living room. The speakers spit Chantelle's voice as she attempts to defend herself for her inappropriate attitude getting in the way of her photoshoots. The doorbell doesn't ring again.

The silence on that front might have been a relief if the door hadn't burst open a few moments later, with such enthusiasm that it smashes into the wall adjacent to it, and through it gushes an actual - an actual _person,_ with eyes that can _see_ Mettaton like this, the tail of his red scarf billowing out behind him, a flurry of white powder gusting into the house and swirling in an erratic choreography to the floor.

"ARE YOU ALL RI -" Papyrus starts to say, and then they lock eyes, Mettaton's eyes dilating as he sinks into the couch and hugs himself self-consciously, discreetly tilting his head in a way that will make his hair cover more of his face. "Oh, what a relief!" Papyrus breathes. "I just - I saw lights on in here, but then you weren't answering the door, so I immediately feared the worst. You conveniently forgot to lock your door, and I thought it would be my chance to heroically sweep in and save you from murder or burglary or worse. My sincerest apologies."

"I'm -" Mettaton's voice appallingly cracks, and he clears his throat, "I'm fine. Few people answer their doors at three o'clock in the morning."

Papyrus squints at nothing. "That's true I guess."

Mettaton more-than-kind-of wants to crawl into a self-dug hole of shame and humiliation (he's as much of a mess every night as he is right now, but he's always deemed it okay so long as no one ever actually sees him like this). But. But the thing. The thing _is._

If it were anyone other than Papyrus, he would be more-than-kind-of wanting to vaporize himself, deposit the no-longer-existing particles into the engine of a jet plane and send the plane into space where it would explode and he would split apart even more and it would all be very lovely. Far more dramatic than a hole could hope to be. He _is_ a rising starlet, and positive publicity doesn't come via mistakes such as this one.

Except he doesn't feel as pressured around Papyrus. Which is as nice as it is dangerous.

"...Papyrus, darling," he says, now that the context of the situation is starting to sink in, "not that I don't enjoy your company, but, ah. Why are you _here?_ Now?"

Papyrus brushes a group of waved chocolate curls from his face and says, "Undyne has entrusted to me a message that I am to deliver to you."

"And you couldn't have called me for this message. Or come at a time when people are actually awake."

" _You_ are awake," Papyrus points out. And if Mettaton hadn't been approximately several thousand miles adrift from his comfort zone before, he certainly is now that Papyrus is studying him intently and stroking his chin in thought. "Why are you awake, exactly? It's quite late, and you don't seem at your best." His cheeks light up like the ruby-bright Christmas lights embellishing every other building outside. "Not that you don't look good, of course! You always look absolutely spectacular. I am merely observing that you look slightly less good than usual, but only slightly, only very slightly, to the point where really I might be making unsupported claims here because how slightly less good you are is so subtle and almost unnoticeable."

Mettaton tries not to be offended. That's hard to do when he stores about 73% of his self-esteem in his physical appearance. Psychologists everywhere are very proud of him. "First of all," he says, instinctively trying to up his allure by twirling a lock of black hair around his finger only to grimace when he gets caught in a knot, and so he gives up in that endeavor entirely because now that he thinks about it he's not really in any position to flirt anyhow, "you're chastising me for being awake, and yet you're awake yourself; and you're telling me that you came to my apartment with the assumption that I am awake even though you disapprove of that? All so you can deliver this mysterious message?"

"Yes," Papyrus replies, very seriously. "Well - no. I meant to deliver the message at a logical time, but I was up jogging, and noticed the lights in your house, so I thought, _'Oh, Mettaton is awake! I should go there and tell him the thing Undyne has told me to tell him!'_ Thus, in conclusion, it was by mere coincidence that I am visiting you at 3 AM, and therefore have no reason not to chastise you. Besides, at least _I_ was being productive at 3 AM. _You're_ just sitting here watching reality television and filling your body with useless polysaccharides and also I'm very sure leaving makeup on for that long is bad for your skin. You're on _Broadway!_ You should take care of yourself more so you can be good and energetic at acting and whatnot!"

"Please," Mettaton says, in his personal defense, "allow me to paint a picture for you: I wake up, I only have a few hours to relax before I have to go and get costumed and made-up and all that. The show starts at seven or eight, and lasts two and a half hours. By the time I get home at eleven or so, my luxuriously beautiful body is a mess of fatigue and adrenaline, oh, _yes,_ the _adrenaline_ of being bathed in stage lights for so long - why are you looking at me like that?"

"Oh! Um. It's just. I thought you were going to paint me an actual picture."

"What - no. Anyways, as I was _saying,_ by the time I get home at eleven or so, I'm just as tired as I am buzzing with excitement and adrenaline and stage butterflies from being on stage in front of over a thousand people. The result," he takes a moment to gesture grandly to himself, "is this. I'm a shameful mess, which is a result of the fatigue. But I also can't make myself sleep, which is a result of the night's excitement."

"I'm assuming I was never meant to see you in this state."

"You don't say," Mettaton sighs. "Well, what's done is done, I suppose. The show must go on. What's this oh-so-important message?"

"Oh, yes, the message!" Papyrus says. "Due to some complications, it's been determined that me, Frisk, Undyne, and Undyne's girlfriend will be camping out at your apartment tomorrow night. Or, er," he looks at the oven's clock, "tonight, rather. At around five, to be precise."

If he didn't love Frisk so much, Mettaton might have protested against people deciding his plans for him, especially on his day off. But he does love Frisk. Very much. So. "Oh, okay. Is that all?"

"It is indeed," Papyrus replies. "Thank you for your cooperation, friend. Salutations!" He starts for the door, then hesitates, eyebrows furrowing as he tugs at his scarlet mittens and seems to consider something. "Before I leave, however...are you...sure you're all right?"

"Of course I'm all right," Mettaton says, with a forced burst of canned laughter, "I'm _me._ I live in a continuous state of having never been better."

"Um," Papyrus says, "I am almost pretty sure that's not how human emotions work?"

"Well," Mettaton says with a playful half-smile, "maybe I'm not human."

Papyrus doesn't buy into it. "I mean it," he says. "To my knowledge, fully-functioning adults don't normally spend their lives eating cereal for dinner at 3 AM. If there's something that's bothering you, I, being the magnificently stellar friend that I am, would like to ensure that you know that I am always all-ears. So all-ears that even if I was something that didn't have ears, like a tree or something, I would warp the laws of physics just to listen to you."

"I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken, my dear," Mettaton says. "I'm one of the highest-functioning adults you'll ever encounter."

"You say this, and yet you spend your days getting five hours of sleep every night and malnutritionizing your body."

"Don't mock me, Papyrus."

"I am _just saying!_ That you! Could use some help getting your life together, probably."

Mettaton waves a hand dismissively. "I know what I'm doing. Now, really, sweetheart, shouldn't you be getting back home yourself? You've said yourself that it's unrealistically late."

"I probably should, actually," Papyrus says, rubbing the back of his neck. "You, um. You would call me though, right? If something was truly wrong? Because I'll be like the backbone you've never had. Like a backbone that's incredibly strong because it drinks milk every single day. That's how much I'll support you."

"Of course," Mettaton says, and now he's fending off a comfortable, endeared smile along with the fact that he's so tired his eyes are starting to hurt and there are the warning signs of a headache flourishing in the back of his skull.

And so the door opens, and the last thing Mettaton sees is the red scarf speckling itself with snowflakes, the pastily vapid fluorescent light of his front doorstep painting itself on Papyrus' dark, rich skin in contrast, feels the cold air push itself into the living room and sting his face. And then Papyrus is gone. And suddenly Mettaton feels even more tired than he did before.

He glances apprehensively at the nest of blankets on his couch. Maybe he really should go to bed. Maybe he really _should_ start sewing his bad habits together into something that even vaguely resembles a healthy lifestyle...

 _Slam!_ "I don't believe you. When you say you're all right."

Mettaton bristles in surprise like a cat sprayed with water. Of course Papyrus feels the need to break into his apartment a second time. Papyrus doesn't ever make anything so simple.

"Darling, I've already told you that I'm fine. Don't worry your silly little head about me. Really."

Is he fine? He doesn't really know.

Papyrus won't have any of it. He closes the door behind him, strides valiantly forward, and sets one foot on the coffee table, clumps of snow breaking off his boot. "I, The Great Papyrus," he declares, thumping one fist to his heart and pinning Mettaton with a determined gaze so theatrical Mettaton feels as though he's on stage, "hereby vow to discover the details of the negativity clearly plaguing you, and to lift the storm from your spirits so that you may feel inspired to take care of yourself more."

"Why, I've never felt so cared for _._ I'm _swooning,_ " Mettaton says, feeling up the part of the damsel in distress and running with it because when has acting his way through stressful emotional situations ever failed him before?

He doesn't think he's fine, not really. It's difficult to think about when Papyrus is here and being as ridiculous as he is. It's like trying to force a stereotypical emo kid into a neon yellow tie-dye fleece sweater.

He's a mess. A fantastic, glittering mess, but a mess nonetheless.

He just doesn't know _why,_ but he has a glimmer of an idea, because looking back perhaps his mental habits are, ah, not the most recommended? Like, _lights, camera, action! Ignore everything you've done wrong in the past! Play yourself up as a selfish narcissist because you're afraid of screwing up every relationship you gain and abandoning everyone just like you always do! Who needs emotional intimacy and honest self-esteem when you've got legs like these, right? That's_ showbusiness, _baby!_

Ha!

It's hilarious. He should have become a comedian.

It's why he jokingly flutters his eyelashes at the man who has his snow-caked boot on his coffee table, but something in his chest ruffles itself awake when it hears the offer to help him with whatever's screwed up about him and latches onto Papyrus like an android to an electromagnet.

Mettaton is lonely. Extraordinarily lonely. Lonelier than anyone as star-thrilled and as brilliant as him has any right to be.

"Good," Papyrus says, "you should be swooning. I do indeed have that effect on all of my friends. Swooning is a very popular thing that occurs around me." He takes his foot off the coffee table and sits beside Mettaton on the couch, yanking out a blanket from where it's wedged in between two cushions and embedding himself within it, not even bothering to take off his boots or his coat or his scarf.

"Later today," he says, "when Frisk and the others are over, we will begin the process."

"The process," Mettaton repeats.

"Yes. The process. Of making you a happier person who cares about himself."

"That's rather impossible, see, because I'm a terrible human being who cares about nothing except fame and validation and unnecessarily brushing aside everyone I love," is what Mettaton would have said if he didn't care for upkeeping his reputation as a fun and flamboyant individual. At least he admits it.

Instead, he says, rather sardonically, "Alright, sure. Why don't we make a reality TV program while we're at it? _'This week, on_ The MTT Show _: how to be a healthy and high-functioning adult, and just in time for the holiday season, too!'"_

Papyrus beams at him. "Yes, that's _exactly_ what I'm talking about!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: frisk is selectively mute

"Mettaton," Alphys says, "this. This is glitter."

Mettaton sits upright and considers that, thoughtfully. _"Ohh,"_ he says, and he snaps his fingers, "yes. That makes sense." And then, quieter, "Frisk, sweetheart, don't stand up yet, I still have to put the clear coating on."

Alphys frowns and shines her flashlight down the kitchen sink's drain again. "And, wh-why, exactly, is your sink clogged with glitter?"

Mettaton pauses to let Frisk wiggle their fingers and admire their black-polished nails, then untwists the cap to the transparent varnish and sets back to work. "Our cast went to talk to a middle school drama class, and there was supposed to be this bit where we shower ourselves in gallons of glitter for the grand finale, because what kind of child doesn't like glitter, right, but the school wasn't quite keen on the idea of having to clean up after that, so they gave it all to me to dispose of. Little did they know that I already have an emergency stash of glitter, unfortunately. And so, down the drain it went."

Alphys rubs her fingertips into her temple. "Only you," she says tiredly.

Mettaton shrugs and glazes the nail polish brush over the top of Frisk's index finger. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Well, it's okay, we can fix this easily; I came over here thinking you actually _broke_ something. Do you have Drano or something anywhere?"

"I don't believe so, no."

"Yeah, that's - I don't know if that would have worked on glitter anyway, so..." Alphys clicks her flashlight off. "I'm just, um. I'm going to run over to Walgreens or something and grab something for this, okay? I'll be right back."

Mettaton makes the universal 'goodbye' gesticulation in her general direction, eyes never leaving Frisk's hand.

Sometime after Alphys leaves, Mettaton blows on Frisk's nails and sends them off at around the same time he hears Undyne yell "Hey, MTT, what the hell is wrong with your coffee table?" from the living room.

Mettaton stands up; he and Frisk had been sitting on the kitchen floor tile. "What's wrong with my coffee table?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm asking you."

"No, I mean - I wasn't aware there was a problem with it."

Mettaton walks into the living room, where Papyrus and Undyne are making themselves comfortable on the couch, Papyrus reading a book, Undyne surfing through television channels. Frisk is now splayed out on the floor, playing an app on their phone. You know, the one with the cats.

"Undyne does have a point," Papyrus says. "Where did all of these scratches come from?"

"Oh," Mettaton says, because now he sees what they're talking about, "yes. There is. A very good reason for that."

Frisk giggles, says, "A _very_ good reason," sets their phone down on the floor and walks to the front door, where they dip a foot into one of the sets of shoes Mettaton has amassed there (the hot pink, high-heeled boots). (The shoe comes up to their knee.) They submerge their other foot in the other shoe, take a moment to muster their balance, and sway rockily towards the rest of the group, to the coffee table.

"Small human, you're about to topple over!" Papyrus admonishes playfully. Frisk holds up one finger to him, presses their palms to the table's surface, splays their fingers, and pulls themself up onto it.

"Frisk-darling, Papyrus is right, you really shouldn't be up there," Mettaton says, but it's counter-productive, really, because he's smiling, which is no doubt just encouraging them.

Frisk, after ensuring that their balance is intact, poses fantastically, hip cocked to one side, one arm behind their head, a leg stretched out and touching the surface of the table with one pointed boot tip. Mettaton isn't sure where they're going with this, but he applauds anyway, and then so does Papyrus, and Frisk winks at the pair of them.

"Frisk," Undyne laughs, "what the hell are you doing?"

Frisk makes a "wait" gesture, pauses, for dramatic effect, and then steps down with the foot that isn't fully touching the table and twists their feet to the side, so the heels scrape against the surface of the coffee table in twin white, scratchy semi-circles. They hold their arms out then, like, _"Ta-da."_

"Oh, my god," Undyne says, then turns to Mettaton. "That's where the marks are from, huh? Do you _regularly_ use your coffee table as a stage?"

"Oh, sweetheart, everything I _step on_ is a stage."

"I don't think tables are meant to be stepped on at all," Papyrus says.

"And, dude, what's up with this couch?" Undyne pulls out a loose thread and lets it drift to the floor. "It's, like, a thousand years old. And it smells really weird. Like, uh..."

"Like gasoline!" Papyrus says.

"Yeah!" Undyne laughs, punching his arm. "Gasoline."

"The couch belonged to the old woman who lived here before me," Mettaton says. "She was...interesting. The apartment was available because she died, so the furniture is all still here, because she didn't include any of it in her will. It's tragic, she was a great woman, etcetra etcetra. But, wait, before you can berate me for keeping this admittedly very crappy furniture, just know that there _is_ a reason for it."

"Uh-huh," Undyne says.

"Do you even know me?" Mettaton scoffs. "I would never settle for this garbage. It's just that I'm going to wait until I become undyingly famous and indescribably wealthy, and then replace everything in the apartment with pieces of far better quality. This, for instance," he pats the armrest of the couch, "will be replaced with a $2,000 couch with fabric made of golden glitter."

"You - you can't make fabric out of glitter."

"Oh, really? Is that a challenge?"

"Sure. Make fabric out of glitter, and I'll give you, like, ten bucks."

"Mettaton," Papyrus interrupts, "you've lived on your own for about two years now, correct?"

"So I have."

"Oh, I see where you're going with this," Undyne says. "Yeah, hey, MTT. How much is Broadway paying you?"

"Around $1,800 a week, why?"

"Dude. You make - how much is that, uh." She takes out her phone and taps something into the calculator app. "You make like $80,000 a year. And you claim that you don't have enough money to replace your shit with nicer furniture?"

"Language, Undyne," Papyrus says, jerking his head in Frisk's direction, who rolls their eyes. They're still standing on the table in Mettaton's heels. They're watching the conversation very seriously.

"Shit, I forgot, sorry." Papyrus sighs in exasperation at her. "Anyways, MTT, spill."

Mettaton stares at the three sets of eyes, debates whether or not he wants to conjure up some other flamboyant lie that won't paint him in the negative light that, really, he deserves, and he ultimately decides against it. He breaks eye contact. "I haven't had the time," he says. "I'm always so tired; when I have time off, the last thing I want to do is go to my nearest furniture store."

"That's nonsense," Papyrus says. "That reminds me, actually, that I've been meaning to give you something since we arrived here." He reaches into his pocket, pulls something out, and places it in Mettaton's lap.

Mettaton examines it. "This is an IKEA gift card." He flips it over onto its back. "It's only worth $5."

"I am broke. The card is more of a metaphorical gesture than it is anything else."

"I see. Thank you?"

"You're very welcome."

"Well, then, that's settled," Undyne says. "Next week, on whatever day you have off. We're going. To IKEA. And we're going to get you some damn furniture."

 

* * *

 

 

That was a week ago.

"I do have a car, you know," Mettaton tells Undyne now.

"I know you do, loverboy," Undyne says, and Mettaton winces when she turns into another lane and doesn't bother with her turn signal; the car behind them honks, and she turns around to flick them off before returning to the steering wheel and laughing to herself. Her car smells like cologne, smoke, and ramen noodles. There's an anime figurine taped to the dashboard. "I don't wanna give anything away, but let's just say that it's imperative that you drive with me."

Mettaton crosses his arms and sticks to staring out the window rather than conversing with her. His side is still aching. (Undyne had torn into his apartment, yelled about that stupid furniture store, and then proceeded to more or less drop-kick him out the door.)

"Where's Papyrus?" Mettaton asks (directed at Alphys, who's in the passenger seat, not Undyne).

"Oh, he works there," Alphys replies. "He's going to join us when he's on break."

"Since when does he work there?"

"U-um, since, like, forever?"

"Oh." Is he always this inattentive to his friends' lives?

When they arrive, Papyrus is waiting for them at the front entrance in that awful yellow uniform; when their eyes meet, it's like watching someone hold down the "increase brightness" key on their laptop.

"Friends! You're here!"

"And so are you," Undyne says, "which is awesome, 'cause me and Alphys were meaning to go shopping for some house refurbishments ourselves, and didn't wanna leave poor MTT here all by himself."

"Why do you always call me that?" Mettaton says. "I can understand using it while typing or whatever, because it's shorter there, but out loud, it's literally the same amount of syllables as my actual name."

Undyne shrugs. "It's catchy."

As she takes Alphys' hand and dives into the store, Papyrus says, "I, personally, like Mettaton."

Mettaton smirks at him. "Do you, now?"

"Yes?" He flushes red. "I meant the name, not - well, I like _you,_ too, but. Anyways." He clears his throat, puffs out his chest, straightens his posture; all things that he does when he's flustered, according to Mettaton's observations over the year that they've been friends. "Let's begin our adventure, shall we?"

By the time they've only been searching for ten minutes, Papyrus says, "I don't mean to rush you or anything, but my break is only thirty minutes, which means that I have approximately twenty minutes left with you."

"I could probably search for my own furniture," Mettaton says, skimming his fingers across the top of a maroon-velvet couch.

"Well. Yes, that is true. But everything's more fun with friends."

Mettaton laughs. "I'm not sure furniture shopping is supposed to be fun at all."

"Furniture shopping can be _very_ fun," Papyrus says, wagging his finger at him. "I've learned from personal experience, through all the times I've had to chastise small children playing man hunt in the kitchen sections of the store - with real knives one time, which was, um, frightening - or politely ask Ms. Nunes to stop bringing her cats to make sure that they like the furniture before she purchases it."

"That's fun?"

"Everyone has their own definition."

Mettaton pats Papyrus' arm and continues to drift along the displays. "Oh," he says, when he comes across a black-leather couch with red embroideries on the arms, "this one is nice, how much -"

He stops suddenly. A chill fizzes in his lower legs and works its way up from there, quivering. His breathing pattern glitches.

He sees a person, a few aisles down, but that's...No, that can't be it, he has to be seeing things; it has to be his past planting itself in his sensory organs.

"Mettaton?" Papyrus says. "Is there something wrong?"

Mettaton doesn't hear him. The person turns their head. Mettaton recognizes the same sunken, soft, pale face, the wisps of white-dyed hair brushing across their forehead and falling like a ghostly waterfall to their shoulders. Mettaton's eyes sting.

"Mettaton," Papyrus says, "really, you're acting as though you've just seen a ghost -"

Mettaton takes Papyrus' hand, yanks him forward, and slides behind him, ignoring the possible consequences as he presses their bodies as flush together as possible. Papyrus makes some exclamatory statement, but Mettaton puts his hands on his shoulders to keep him in place before Papyrus can try to move away from him.

" _Mettaton,_ just what do you think you're _doing -_ oh."

Mettaton takes in a breath.

"Is that...?"

The breath doesn't seem to want to leave him, and it burns in his chest.

"Yes," he whispers, finally. "I can't let them see me. Don't move."

"What are you talking about? I thought you would've been thrilled to see them, after all these years!"

"Just. Stay. _Still,"_ Mettaton hisses. People are looking at them oddly. He hardly cares.

Several moments pass. Papyrus shifts his weight from one leg to the other every now and then, and Mettaton glares at him (not that he can see) and copies the movement every time he does so he can remain camouflaged. Papyrus seems to start to say something, but then he stops himself.

"Alrighty," he says, when he genuinely does speak, "they're gone."

Every knot in Mettaton's insides loosens considerably, and Mettaton leaves Papyrus' back. "Thank you for that darling, I...just...wasn't..."

They aren't gone. In fact, they're even closer than they were before. Staring right at him.

"You - you said they were _gone!"_

"Wowie, why would you look at the time!" Papyrus says, glancing at the watch that he doesn't have. "My break ends soon. I should really be getting back to my post." Mettaton opens his mouth to yell at him, but Papyrus is already gone. Like, literally gone. Disappears.

The person takes a cautious step forward, and they're no longer looking at Mettaton, but staring intently at the ground.

His heart is thundering. The guilt he's associated with his cousin gushes cleanly and hotly through his blood.

For some reason, all he can hear is Papyrus' voice, and what they'd talked about a week prior. About maturing, and about stepping up to the plate and _stopping it_ with these atrocious mental habits that he knows are bad for him, but he just, he _just._ He doesn't...

He clears his throat. He, too, takes a step forward. "Bl - Napstablook, that _is_ you, isn't it?" Saying the words aloud releases a cloud of butterflies in his system, and his intestines squirm uncomfortably below his rib cage. But he remains outwardly cool, confident. Acting, all that.

Napstablook's face fills with blood, and their eyes widen. "Oh," they whisper, barely audible, "it - it is you. I, um. Was having some trouble recognizing you. You look..." They rub their arm, clearly uncomfortable. "It's, oh, how long has it been..."

"Years," Mettaton says, and his voice sounds detached in his mouth, like it isn't his own. "Around three, I think. I - I didn't know you were in New York now."

Nasptablook shrugs sheepishly. "I have my reasons."

There's an awkward, swollen silence

"Oh, well," Napstablook says, "this was lovely, but, um, I've already taken enough of your time, so, um, I guess I'll just get going now. It was nice seeing you."

"Likewise." The amount of time it takes for Napstablook to turn around with this dreamy, unintelligible look in their eyes and start walking away is the same amount of time it takes for Mettaton to cultivate the courage required to yell "Wait - Napstablook!" after him.

Napstablook stops. Just barely turns their head to look at him.

"W-Would you, ah. Maybe. Like to come over some time? For lunch or something?"

A smile so small, so faint, Mettaton's positive he's simply imagining it through wishful thinking. They nod their head, return, and take something out of their pocket, along with a pencil; they scribble something, press it into Mettaton's chest, which Mettaton quickly grabs when they let go and swiftly go off on their way.

Mettaton looks at the paper. It's a phone number.

It isn't much. But it's a start.

He's breathing easier now.

"So, as it would turn out," says a much more familiar voice, and Mettaton closes his eyes, "I still have, like, ten minutes until my break is over! Fantastic, isn't it?' Mettaton doesn't answer him. "I'm...I'm sorry," he continues. "You aren't upset with me, are you?"

"Why would I be upset with you?" Mettaton murmurs.

"It wasn't really my place to force you into that situation. I only realized that a few minutes after."

"You were only trying to help, darling, it's all right. It...went very well, actually."

"Mettaton, that's great!" Papyrus says. "I'm so happy for y - oh, no. Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying," Mettaton says, drying a tear from his face with the sleeve of his coat.

"That's all right! It's perfectly normal to cry after an experience so emotional. Especially because, well. How long has it been?"

"Three years," Mettaton says, sniffling and trying to get himself under control. "They didn't even recognize me at first. I don't know why, but that was the most heartbreaking thing."

"Well," Papyrus says, approaching him, "don't beat yourself up over _that._ It's been three years since they've last seen you, you said, yes? And I've seen what you looked like pre-testosterone and top surgery and that entire process that you began _two_ years ago. It really is quite the change. That's probably all it was."

It actually does make him feel better. Papyrus is good at that. "Yes, you're probably right."

Papyrus puts his hand on Mettaton's shoulder in what must be a comforting gesture. "I know you didn't bring your own car here; would you like me to drive you home?"

Something wells in his chest. "That would be fantastic, actually, yes. Furniture shopping can wait another week."

"Or, it might not, because I still have to be here for another two hours. I hope your phone is charged."

"Two _hours?"_ His feelings for Papyrus aren't worth two hours. He changes his mind.

"Do you want me to drive you home or not?"

"Undyne can drive me back, it's all right."

"Undyne and Alphys left already," Papyrus says. "So when I ask you if you want me to drive you home, I mean that you actually have no other option."

"What? Why? She knew that she was my...my ride..." _Oh, clever, Undyne, very clever._

She's stranded him here with Papyrus on purpose. She and Alphys  _know._

"Alright," Mettaton sighs, "two hours it is."

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they get home, it's dark outside.

Mettaton hadn't found anything that he liked enough to take home except a statuette of a rose vase that he absolutely did not need, so getting out of the car and into his apartment is simple enough without the boxes that he was admittedly expecting to come home with. The earlier encounter with his cousin had shuffled his mind too much to really be able to put any thought into anything.

Mettaton thanks Papyrus for driving him and takes his coat off, and then his hat, and he makes a move to toss them on the couch before Papyrus gives him this Look and he complies to that, hanging the two articles of clothing on the coat rack instead.

When Papyrus starts to take his coat off, too, Mettaton asks him why.

"I wanted to talk to you," Papyrus says, in a way that might have been ominous if he wasn't, well, Papyrus, and he hangs his winter layers on the rack as well. "I know I promised you I would begin to help you unloading the negativity in your head last week, but when everyone came over it felt weird to bring it up in such a casual setting, and I was never able to get you alone."

"If you wanted to get me alone, all you had to do was ask," Mettaton says, smiling and and putting one hand on his hip.

"I'll. Keep that in mind?" Papyrus scratches the back of his head. "Really, though. Let's talk. What is it that constantly bothers you so much?"

Mettaton's smile fades. This is just Papyrus, right? Papyrus is as harmless as a leaf.

Mettaton looks at him, opens his mouth, deflates, words don't come out.

It's time, though, he thinks.

He's already emotionally drained from today. One more conversation can't hurt.

And he's been carrying this around with him for _years._

And he thinks that maybe, just a little bit, just a _little bit,_ he's started falling in love with the person prying at him right now. Because - because he's the only person who's ever bothered to pry.

(Not that Mettaton particularly _deserves_ the concern. He's never there for anyone else. It makes sense that such sentiments are generally mutual.)

(Still.)

Mettaton sits on the couch and gestures for Papyrus to follow.

"I-I know it's silly to ask, but you won't repeat this to anyone, will you?"

Papyrus shakes his head. "Of course not."

Mettaton stares at his hands for a very long time. "I..."

One word (letter, really) in, and he's already started to cry.

The residual, hidden bitterness that he's sure he saw in Napstablook's eyes. It's been over a year since he and Alphys made up, and she still looks at him oddly sometimes, distrustfully, curiously; Undyne doesn't trust him around her, he can tell; he's caused her enough heartache. He hasn't even contacted his other cousins in god knows how long. And despite it all, despite the fact that he hasn't so much as lifted a finger to be in other people's lives, they still want to be around him. And Mettaton still has the nerve to be lonely.

It's lonely, living by yourself.

But there's that, and then there's also the sort of aching loneliness that transcends the literal meaning of the word entirely; something that has nothing to do with physically being by himself.

"H-hey, wait a minute now!" Papyrus says, putting a hand on Mettaton's thigh, and Mettaton stares at it, thinks about how that feels nice, "There's no need to cry, my dear friend. If there were, I would have already warned you about it."

That doesn't even make sense. It makes Mettaton break down more.

And then Papyrus hugs him, and it feels like everything he's been missing over the past years: warm, and all-encompassing, and genuine. He starts to calm down. Rests his chin on Papyrus' shoulder. Organizes his thoughts so they stop dripping grossly and emotively everywhere and become more crystalline and coherent.

"Okay," he says, voice wavering as he pulls himself away, "okay, Dr. Therapist. Let's do this."

Papyrus smiles. "Take your time. I am a very patient person."

Mettaton rubs his eyes, glad he chose not to wear eye makeup today. And he spills over with words. Because he trusts Papyrus. Suddenly, he trusts him more than anything.

Mettaton starts with the first discernible source of angst he can think of: teenager Mettaton. Because now, he hasn't been misgendered in over a year, but teenager him doesn't know how that feels yet, and teenager him doesn't know what it's like to not have to bind every day, and he wishes he could go back and tell teenager him that everything will pay off, just grit through the dysphoria and the word "she" for now, everything will pay off. He then takes Papyrus on a generally very shitty journey through taking an audition on Broadway in senior year and _actually getting a part,_ through dropping out of high school because that's it, right, his career is settled, through moving to where he is now the second he hit eighteen with money he didn't have and money he's going to have to pay back at some point in the near future. He (gingerly) talks about how he ignored phone calls, forgot about the people who had been there for him his entire life because who needs them now, he's on his way to stardom and there just isn't any room for his simpleton foundations. He talks about the guilt that started to creep in on him because of that. About how he wrestled that guilt aside. About how that's the thing he regrets the most.

You don't know what it's _like,_ he tells Papyrus, living in this dusty ex-living-person's apartment with the augmenting realization that _"You could be happy right now, Mettaton, if you'd never pushed those people out of your life, if you'd never thought that you were too good for them. If you were only to let yourself be loved, you could be happy right now,"_ because now loneliness is consuming him like a flame to oxygen. And recently, a jar's been put over the candle. And the oxygen is running out.

"I'm not sure I understand," Papyrus says, "are there not people in your life right now?"

"Oh, there are," Mettaton says, unable to keep the sourness from his tone. "When I met you, it was the first honest friendship that I'd had in a while." He remembers that. He met Papyrus at a grocery store. Sort of had to, really, when Papyrus had been tossing a stick of butter across the aisle to his brother and ended up hitting Mettaton, the poor, unsuspecting shopper, in the head instead. The two of them hit it off immediately. It was wonderful. "And when I met Frisk through you, that was a light in my life, too, but they're only a child, I can't lean on them emotionally like I can a fellow adult. And Alphys...We re-met by accident. A castmate asked me if I could run to his apartment and get something for him, since he was busy, and surprise, it turns out that Alphys was living in the same building at the time. We became friends again, but it was awkward. It still is, in a way." He winces. "I...haven't always treated her as well as I could have. And I still haven't apologized for what I did to her. Because I can't. Because I'm awful."

"You aren't awful," Papyrus scoffs. "I, for one, think you're quite cool. Almost as cool as me."

Mettaton can't not smile at that. It's refreshing. "And Undyne - well, there was no way around that friendship, if you can even call it that. She just so happened to be my new friend's best friend and my old friend's new girlfriend. We don't always get along brilliantly, as I'm sure you've noticed. She doesn't trust me."

Papyrus tilts his head to the side. "Really? You two always seemed fine to me."

"My point here is that because I'm only ever on stage or right here, I haven't really met anyone new to fill that void. You're...really the only picturesque, angst-free friendship I have. Castmates are like your family, but it's _different,_ and a year later you're with another cast anyway. And now, I just..." He lets his gaze float to the ceiling and its mysterious stain. "I've made a mess of myself. I love myself, because, _hello,_ have you _seen_ this body. I'm fantastic. Everyone who meets me is instantaneously charmed. But then, I'm disgusted with myself, too. And I don't trust myself with, with..." For some reason, out of _everything he's talked about,_ this is what's making him shy. "With emotional intimacy? It frightens me. I frighten myself, sometimes."

"You're being emotionally intimate right now, are you not?" Papyrus says.

"Oh," Mettaton whispers. "Oh, I suppose I am."

Papyrus smiles with that stupid golden retriever grin of his. "See, you're making progress already!"

Mettaton wants to cry again. "Yes, I suppose I am." He bites his lip, lets his gaze focus on Papyrus' face, which is a mistake, because now he feels like an idiot for dumping all his life's angst on this perfectly pure, perfectly happy individual. And emotional intimacy is not something he's prepared to deal with right now. And this needs to stop. Right now. "Well, that's everything," he says, standing up. "Sorry, gorgeous, but the show's over now. You can leave."

"Wha - me?"

"Mhmm." Mettaton takes Papyrus' winter things from the coat rack and tosses them to him.

"You can't just confide in me in such a way and then expect me to leave! I - I still have to console you, and fortify how much of a good friend I am by being affectionate and supportive, and start to help you with your problems, and provide love and comfort to you for the rest of the night."

"Rest of the night, hm?"

Papyrus sighs in exasperation. "You know that's not what I meant. My point is that you went through all this suffering - just because you trust me the most, might I add, which I'm quite proud of - and now you will not even let me help you? Which was the entire point of the suffering?"

"Yes, well, sorry, folks, but the MTT Suffering Show has been canceled." He opens the door and gestures to the outdoors. It's cold as shit. Hopefully Papyrus takes the hint.

 _There you go again,_ something in him chimes, _pushing them away._

_You sound surprised, sweetheart._

Papyrus rises from the couch and sheepishly fiddles with the beanie he's holding. "I'll leave if you really want me to," he says, "but - let me try one more thing. I read somewhere, totally and completely not after researching the topic extensively, that people are more likely to open up if the person they're talking to does as well."

"I've already opened up," Mettaton says. He's starting to get irritated.

"Ah, yes, but now you're closing up again. You're getting self-conscious, are you not?"

Papyrus clears his throat theatrically.

"As you most likely know, Sans suffers a case of clinical depression. It's why he and I live together. He...needs someone, to watch over him and make sure he takes care of himself, and doesn't do anything, u-um, anything stupid." Mettaton leans against the wall and continues to watch the flakes of snow pirouette about each other outside. He doesn't see what this has to do with him. And, ha, if it doesn't have to do with him, then what's the point, _right?_ "I, as a person, don't like seeing people distraught. Or sad. Or any species of negative emotion. Oftentimes I feel obligated to make them feel perfect and happy again. And if I don't succeed in doing this, I'm disappointed in myself, and it sucks some life out of me; of course, very rarely do I succeed, because people are people, and they're never going to be happy 100% of the time. Instead of accepting that some people are sad sometimes, and that's all right, or that no matter how loving and amazing and supportive I am, Sans's depression isn't going to magically go away, I put all my energy into making them happy. I...put my self-worth into it, sometimes. And for the longest time, I didn't see anything wrong with that, because I was just being a good person, was I not? And then one day Sans says to me, and I quote, because I remember this moment quite well, _'Bro, you're depressed, too,'_ and I looked at myself, and I was like, _'Heh, I guess I am.'_ Thankfully, it isn't anything chronic like his is, but if I don't watch myself, I can be in a pretty bad place myself, because I care so much about other people that I don't bother to worry about my own happiness."

Mettaton's arms uncross. He turns around. Papyrus looks more vulnerable than he's ever seen him. "I never would have guessed," he says softly. "I - I didn't know. Papyrus, that's..."

"You're really the first person I've told. Now, are you going to close that door or not? It's getting cold in here."

Mettaton closes the door. Doesn't protest when Papyrus puts his things back on the coat rack. He can't even imagine Papyrus, personified grandeur and sunshine, having something like depression, but then again - what was that 'meme' that Frisk had showed him once - _"The happiest people are the saddest,"_ or something like that. And he looks at himself, thinks about his own flamboyancy, always-smiling, beguiling, loud and energetic, in accordance with the fact that there's a dark, dripping, squirming mass that's perfectly nestled in his rib cage. Maybe he has more in common with Papyrus than either of them have ever admitted.

"You really aren't awful, you know," Papyrus says, and they're close together now, Papyrus radiating body heat in the chilled space around them. "You've made some pretty bad decisions that I cannot defend you for, but those don't mean you're a bad person. It just means that you are a _person._ And people make mistakes. And at least you do seem to be remorseful for them. Everyone has their major character flaws, after all. I care for you very much, and I want you to care for yourself as well, and - _mmh."_ It's hard to finish his sentence when he's got the person he's talking to suddenly grabbing him by his scarf and kissing him like that. Because aforementioned person has emotions and thoughts whirlpooling in his head that he doesn't know what to do with. And kissing Papyrus had seemed like the most effective outlet.

Papyrus makes another muffled sound of surprise, and he goes frigid, and then he's melting down and awkwardly putting his hands on both of Mettaton's shoulders. He's obviously very inexperienced, but that's all right, that's more than all right, because all that Mettaton cares for is the fact that he isn't pushing him away, that he's reciprocating. That he's _reciprocating._

It lasts maybe five seconds, just enough time for them to tilt their heads and then break apart before it really starts to turn into anything heavy.

"Wow," Papyrus says, and he looks like he's holding his breath there's so much tension in his posture, and his hands are still on Mettaton's shoulders, "um. That was was certainly something."

"A very _good_ something."

"I concur, but, um. I don't see what this has to do with your suffering, or why you chose that moment to, um, confess your true feelings for me."

Mettaton looks at him in disbelief, and when it becomes clear that Papyrus really doesn't have any idea why they just kissed, he raises one hand to put it on Papyrus' wrist and says, "It has everything to do with my suffering. It - I - you -" He takes a moment to clear his thoughts, because he's very near swooning right now, complete with the dreamy haze over his mind and the cartoon hearts and everything else, "I'm very fond of you, dear. You're one of the few things that really, actually, ah. Makes me...care? About things?"

Papyrus reaches Maximum Brightness Levels and squeezes Mettaton's shoulders (almost to the point of pain, but Mettaton doesn't comment on it) and says, "Really? Me?"

"Really. You."

"That makes me incredibly happy to hear! Because you make me care about things as well. One thing, in particular. And that thing is you. Because I care about you. Very much, and, um, can I kiss you again?"

"You need not even ask," Mettaton says, taking the hand that's on Papyrus' wrist and placing it on his cheek instead, Papyrus using Mettaton's shoulders to draw him in and press themselves together again.

It feels so good. It makes him feel like he's something worth loving.

(A temporary thought, he knows, one kiss isn't going to suddenly make him love himself again. But it's a start. And it certainly doesn't hurt.)

And then, of course, during this entanglement of emotion and warmth and passion: Papyrus' phone rings.

"Oh," Papyrus says, after he's taken himself away from Mettaton's mouth and his hands from his shoulders and Mettaton more or less considers stabbing the cell phone with a kitchen knife, "sorry, I should probably take this; that's Sans's ringtone."

Mettaton tries to not look over-dramatically bitter while Papyrus puts the phone to his ear and says, "Hello, brother, you will not _believe_ what just happened," and re-focuses on the falling snow outside his window. There's a brief silence, and Mettaton can just barely hear Sans's deep, casual voice from the speaker.

"What's wrong?" Papyrus says, sounding incredibly worried, which piques Mettaton's curiosity and so he looks back at his friend(?) and the blatant concern plastered on his face. "Oh. Oh my god. Oh my - are you sure? This isn't another one of your pranks, is it? No, you're right, that's a terrible thing to prank someone about, that's - oh my _god,_ oh my god, Sans, what are we going to do? Okay. Okay, yes. I will be in my car in a maximum of ten seconds. Yes. Goodbye." Papyrus hangs up and haphazardly shoves his phone into his pocket, takes the stuff from the coat rack and slips into them.

"Is everything okay?" Mettaton asks.

"No, it's not," Papyrus says, grimacing as he struggles to get his arm through one of his sleeves in a way that might have been cute if it weren't for the sudden urgency in his atmosphere. "It's Frisk. They've gone missing."

Mettaton's heart stops. "What do you mean, they've gone missing?"

"Nothing, they are just - they're just _gone!_ Toriel went into their room sometime after they went to bed to bring them something, and they weren't in their bed, and they weren't anywhere to be found in the house, either."

Mettaton takes a moment to process this. And then he's out the door before he even registers that he's doing it.

"Wait!" Papyrus calls, following him out. "You can't go out like that, you'll freeze, and get something terrible like a fever!"

"Don't worry about me," Mettaton says. It already hurts to take in winter air through his nose, but he takes the car keys from where Papyrus is clutching them in his mitten-clad hand and thrusts himself into the passenger seat of Papyrus' car, shoving the key into the ignition and waiting for Papyrus to get in as well.

"Now would have been a good time to practice this 'self-care' thing," Papyrus mutters, putting the car into reverse and backing out of the parking spot, and Mettaton rolls his eyes at that, because even while being plagued with the worry that comes along with an emergency situation Papyrus still has the capacity to be concerned about the fact that Mettaton might be cold.

And then they're off, skimming down the streets in a way that is actually quite dangerous considering all the ice on the road but, you know, whatever.

"Where are we going?" Mettaton asks.

"I'm headed in Toriel's general direction," Papyrus replies. "They're more likely to be closer to their house, right? Let's just try it."

They both sit in silence. They don't even know what they're looking for, and New York is _huge,_ and it has so many people; the chance of finding one eleven-year-old child amongst the bustling chaos of the city is slim to none. Neither of them say this observation out loud.

They find themselves speeding down a forlorn highway, only a few other cars accompanying them on the road. And some miraculous spirit must bless them with Her grace. Because on his side, Mettaton catches a glimpse of blue and purple as they whiz past it. Frisk's favorite sweater.

"Papyrus, stop," he says, and Papyrus slams on the brake, harder than necessary and so they both jerk forward, and Mettaton is flinging himself out of the car and directing himself towards the unconscious lump on the side of the road.

"Oh my god," he whispers, his breath forming a cloud of mist before him, and he collapses next to the fallen child, eyes scanning over the strip of blood on Frisk's face, the blue lips, the bloodless face.

"Oh my _god,"_ Papyrus agrees when he catches up to them.

Mettaton places Frisk in his lap, cradling them to his chest and and pressing two fingers to their jugular; there's a pulse, just barely, and he feels a certain suspicion dissolve in a fuzzy mess of burning relief. "Papyrus, call a hospital, and tell them we're on our way. Call Toriel and everyone else too, so they know that we found them."

"You call a hospital and Toriel and everyone else, and let me have them; you aren't doing them any good, holding them like that. You're both going to get hypothermia. Frisk might already have it, and I don't want you having to go to the hospital on me, too."

It's true. Mettaton's whole body is aching, the cold seeping in through his skin and eating away at him, so his body transcends numbness entirely; it's all a sore, stinging disarray. Trembling, he lets Papyrus pick up Frisk from his lap, watches him wrap the child in his coat and head to the car, where the heater is cranked up. The heater. That sounds really good right now.

"Come _on,_ Mettaton!" Papyrus calls to him, and Mettaton musters the strength to stand, despite the fact that it feels like his joints are frozen together. He makes it to the car somehow, painfully, takes the phone from Papyrus with one senseless hand as he closes his door, gestures for Papyrus to close his. Papyrus nods and slams the door shut, and he holds Frisk in between the heating vent on the dashboard and his own body heat.

Mettaton dazedly dials up the hospital, alerts them of the situation and the fact that they're on their way while Papyrus takes the time to strap on his seat belt (of course) and hold Frisk in his lap while he waits for Mettaton to finish with the phone.

Mettaton hands the cellular device back to him after he's called Toriel and Alphys, too. "The hospital will be more than ready for us by the time we arrive," he says.

Papyrus nods. "Here, take Frisk, while I drive," he says. "You both should be warmer now." Mettaton takes them from him and holds them to his torso. They're still freezing. So is he.

As Papyrus drives back towards the direction of the hospital, Frisk stirs in Mettaton's arms, and just barely opens their already-narrow eyes.

"Frisk, my sweet little angel," Mettaton says. "Are you all right? Oh, honey, what happened?"

Frisk shudders and takes a fistful of Mettaton's shirt, burying their face into his chest. With the other hand, they reach out for something, and Mettaton already knows what they want, so he holds them to him with one arm and opens the glove box with the other, rummaging around until he finds a pen and a notepad.

"Here," he says.

 _Night terror,_ Frisk writes on it. _I sleepwalk sometimes when it happens, but I've never gone this far. Chara made me do it. They thought it would be funny. I was really scared. Glad you and Papyrus found me._

"I-I see," Mettaton says. "And, ah, who, exactly, is Chara?"

 _I don't want to talk about them right now. I want to go back to sleep._ And they do. They close their eyes and snuggle against Mettaton's chest and fall asleep again.

Mettaton relays what happened to Papyrus and holds Frisk tighter.

Papyrus takes a moment to look at the pair of them, before he visibly chastises himself for not keeping his eyes on the road. "I must say, Mettaton," he comments, "for someone who doesn't like himself very much because of the way he treats other people, you've shown an extraordinary amount of warmth and vulnerability throughout this night."

Mettaton shifts so he and Frisk can both be more comfortable in the passenger seat. And he thinks about the fact that Papyrus is right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this gay piece of trash was the first thing i wrote in 2016
> 
> fuckin solid
> 
> happy new year everyone

The ill, pasty whites, the aura of death and disease that congeals in the atmosphere like clumps of spoiling milk, the voices on the overheads that try to sound sweet and lively but come off like stale sugar instead; who could _like_ hospitals. There are people out there who want to spend their entire careers in them. Gross.

Mettaton, Papyrus, and Sans are in the waiting room, standing by until Toriel returns from visiting Frisk's room so they can visit them, too. Undyne and Alphys live some ways away from the hospital, and they'd driven even farther in search of Frisk, but they'll be here soon.

Papyrus won't stop fidgeting; he's either violently bouncing his leg or tapping his fingernails on the plastic chair or obsessively carding his hand through his hair. Mettaton's personal anxiety is starting to melt down. He's just glad that Frisk is all right.

"I'm going to get some coffee from that machine we saw earlier," Papyrus says, suddenly standing up. "Would you two like anything?"

"Nah," says Sans, "I'm good."

"I'm not sure you need coffee right now, Papyrus," says Mettaton.

"Of course I need coffee. Did you know that there's a species of cat that eats mostly coffee beans? Every living thing on this planet branched out from a common ancestor. Which means, technically, that I am genetically related to this cat. Which means that I need coffee. Do you want anything or not."

"I...Yes, sure, you know what, why not. Extra sugar."

"I already knew that you wanted extra sugar," Papyrus says, and he takes a step in the opposite direction before hesitating, bending down to kiss Mettaton's forehead, and then rushing off towards the coffee machine.

"Huh," Sans says.

"Yeah," Mettaton says.

"You and my brother, eh?"

Mettaton side-eyes him and gives him half a smile. "Why, are you about to give me the cliché older brother 'hurt him or try anything funny and I kill you' speech?"

"Jeez, no, I hate it when people do that. My brother's an adult, he can make his own judgment calls. 'Sides, as long as he's happy, then that's all that matters."

Mettaton looks at him fully now. "You love him a lot," he comments

"More than anything." Sans looks down at his hands. "Just, uh. Take care of 'im for me, will you?"

Mettaton laughs. "It might end up being the other way around."

Sans's permanent relaxed, lazy smile turns genuine. "Yeah. He's like that."

Papyrus returns with two styrofoam cups, wisps of steam curling up from both. "Here you are," he says to Mettaton, handing him one. Mettaton takes a sip and almost chokes on it.

"Oh, my god, sorry, wrong one." Papyrus switches out the cups. Mettaton taste-tests it; much better, this time.

"How can you drink black coffee?" he asks him.

"I like to drink coffee according to my moods. Right now, my soul is a gaping hole of anxiety for Frisk's health. So, black coffee it is."

"Yeah," Sans says, jokingly. "That's why I _always_ drink my coffee black."

Papyrus gives him this sad look, and he looks like he wants to say something, but he sighs instead and says, "Are you sure you don't want one? You always drink coffee."

"Not really in the mood, I guess. You could say I'm _procaffeinating_ on my daily cup."

Mettaton and Papyrus look at him. Papyrus glares blazedly.

Mettaton puts a hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter.

"Not you, too," Papyrus whines, and he looks pathetically, dejectedly betrayed.

Toriel re-enters the waiting room, with slow, gentle steps, a melancholy expression, and she approaches their trio. "Frisk wants to talk to you," she says to Mettaton.

"Me? Alone?"

"Yes. They went back to sleep after making the request, so I would advise you be quiet until they wake up, but it's what they wanted."

"Oh. Alright." Mettaton takes Papyrus' hand and affectionately squeezes it, which Papyrus smiles at, and then he rises from his chair and is ultimately led by a nurse into Frisk's room.

"She's going to have to stay the night here to make sure nothing develops," the nurse says, and Mettaton cringes, "but besides that, she'll be fine. Take your time in here."

"Actually, if you could call this particular patient by -" but the nurse is already gone. Mettaton tries not to get hung up on the whole thing, which is difficult between his own personal memories and his support of Frisk's non-binary endeavors, and he takes a moment to fight off the urge to call after the nurse before turning to Frisk's bed. As Toriel had said, they're sound asleep, the color having returned to their face. Thank _god._ They've been changed into a hospital gown, and on the little plastic table beside the bed is an assortment of the possessions that must have been on Frisk's person upon changing them: a still-wrapped orange Starburst, chapstick, and a small pocketknife.

Watching Frisk's sleeping figure is cute and all until it gets really boring, so Mettaton seats himself in the chair beside the bed and vows to sit here for, say, twenty minutes, and if Frisk isn't awake by then, he'll leave. The others want to see Frisk too, he's sure, and just this once he supposes he won't let his own selfish desires get in the way of that.

Frisk makes a small, muffled sound in their sleep, which prompts Mettaton to look up from where he'd been killing time on his phone. This means that he sees everything that happens next very clearly:

Frisk springs up from the bed, a swift, jarring blur, and one hand scrabbles for the bedside table, fingers curling into claws, grasping at the biggest and nearest item there, switching it open.

Something happens.

"Oh," Mettaton says, staring dazedly at the ribbon of blood snaking down his arm, "um. Oh my."

Frisk's legs are swung over the hospital's bed, and they're pitched forward from where they'd lunged at him, and the pocketknife falls to the floor with a clatter.

"Oh my gosh," they half-whimper, half-rasp, "o-oh m-my gosh, I'm so sorry."

"Oh no, don't worry about it, dear," Mettaton says with a chirp of nervous laughter, bringing his arm to his mouth to suck on the wound so the bleeding will let up and it doesn't have to waterfall all over his forearm like it was doing. It proves ineffective for stopping the bleeding, at least, and the taste of blood in his mouth is starting to nauseate him, so he presses the source of the bleeding into his shirt instead (at least it's black). (He belatedly wonders if this is karma for not wearing something long-sleeved with more insulating capabilities like how Papyrus had been chastising him earlier.)

"...Frisk, darling," he says, because he's just sitting there bleeding and Frisk is just sitting there and watching him bleed, and they're starting to cry, "d-do you want to tell me why you just, ah. Tried to slice my arm open?" For Christ's sake, why would the hospital staff leave a knife at a child patient's bedside table, anyway?

"I-I don't know, that just happens sometimes, b-but usually there aren't people around to, um, to actually get hurt." Frisk sniffles, hiccups, wipes their wet cheek on their arm. Normally, Mettaton is very pleased to hear Frisk's voice. It doesn't quite carry the same sentiment with it right now. Plus, with his arm feeling singed from the inside like this, it's hard to feel anything cheerful and affectionate (even if he does take a sort of pleasure from the pain, but really, let's not get into that now.)

"I..." Their gaze drops to the floor, and their lips tremble. "I think there's something wrong with me," they whisper. "Sometimes I-I just get these weird impulses to do really violent things, but it doesn't feel like _me._ It especially happens when I wake up from nightmares." They hug themself and ball up. "Sometimes, I do things in my sleep, or I'll wake up doing strange stuff." They shrink down further. "In the nightmares, Mom's old kid, Chara, talks to me, and tries to get me to do really bad stuff. I think that's where the violent impulses come from, too. I don't think Chara ever leaves me completely." They take a fistful of the bedsheets and shudder. "I'm really, really sorry," they murmur. "I didn't want to hurt you. A-and I don't think Chara did, either. I don't think Chara's a bad person. I just think they have some trouble sorting out what's right and wrong."

They look at the pocketknife on the floor. "That's not even my knife. I think it's Mom's. I don't remember where I got it from. Chara must have made me grab it before we went and sleepwalked down the road."

Oh, god.

How do you even respond to something like that?

"Chara is your mother's old child?" Mettaton asks. "As in...?"

"They're dead now, yeah."

"Frisk," Mettaton says. "I think we should tell your mother about this."

Frisk jolts upwards. "No," they plead, "don't. I don't want her to know about Chara. It would hurt her too much. It's - I'm in therapy and everything, it's okay. I just. Don't want her to know about Chara."

Mettaton draws in a breath to steady himself. "Fair enough," he relents, eventually. "It can be our little secret."

Frisk sags in relief, but doesn't reply. They must be done talking now.

It's undetermined what Frisk's life had been like before Toriel adopted them. Based on Frisk's mental health, Mettaton's assuming it wasn't all that glamorous. Despite the fact that his arm is throbbing with this sharp, stinging pain, all he wants to do to the child who caused it is hold them and envelope them away from this godawful planet.

"Now," he says, trying to change the subject though he knows this conversation will haunt him for weeks to come, "why did you call me in here in the first place?"

Frisk looks at him, waiting for something. Mettaton picks up his phone (it had fallen to the floor when he was, you know, cut open), pulls up the notes app, and hands it to them. Frisk types something and shows him the screen.

_The nurse keeps calling me a girl. I was going to ask if you could ask her to stop. You seemed like the best person for the job._

"You know, it's funny you say that," Mettaton says, "because I noticed that too. She left before I could tell her that you're not a girl at all, but if I see her again, I promise that I'll correct her for you."

Frisk nods, smiles, and holds their arms out. Mettaton doesn't hesitate to stand up and hug them. And hug them, and hug them.

"Okay," he says after he's split from them again, "any idea on how I can make it through the hospital without anyone noticing that there's blood all over my arm?"

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, Toriel calls him and tells him that Frisk doesn't want anyone but him babysitting them from now on, when the situation calls for it. She tells him that it's the oddest thing, but Frisk seems to trust him more than most things all of a sudden.

Mettaton has never felt so significant.

It helps.

 

* * *

 

 

The day after that, Papyrus tells him that he's given Sans Mettaton's number. He thinks they could be friends, he says, and that they have many things to relate to each other with, starting with awful puns and ending with terrible self-esteem and mental issues.

Mettaton could really use a new, blank-slate friendship.

It helps.

 

* * *

 

 

He texts Napstablook, after days of procrastinating. They arrange a date, next week, to meet at a café down the street and catch up.

It _really_ helps.

 

* * *

 

 

"Alphys," Mettaton says, dramatically. "Go get Mettaton."

His legs are resting in Papyrus' lap, which means that Mettaton and Papyrus are comfortable but Alphys and Undyne are squished comically towards the end of the ( _brand new,_ black, plush, expensive) couch. Mettaton peels off the top of his Starbucks cup so he can lick off the caramel-drizzled whipped cream directly as he waits, but when Alphys doesn't get up, he puts the top back on, sets the coffee on the sleek, scratch-less coffee table and glares at her expectantly.

"I-I - what?" Alphys says, finally. The four of them had been on the topic of the home movies that Mettaton had made as a child. Mettaton has figured that it's time.

Alphys' eyes spark with a realization. _"Oh,"_ she says, "do you mean that calc-"

"Yes."

"Why would I know where it is?"

"You're a scientist. You're supposed to know everything."

"That's - that's not the way it -" Alphys sighs and slumps back into the couch.

Mettaton smiles at her. "He's in the right-most drawer in the kitchen."

"Okay, okay, fine." Alphys stands up and leaves for the kitchen. She returns with a Texas Instruments calculator in hand, and Mettaton reaches out for it, and she gives it to him before going to cuddle against Undyne again.

"Did you...name a calculator after _yourself?"_ Papyrus asks him.

"Mhmm," Mettaton says, taking the device out of its case and flashing it to him. "Look me in the eyes and tell me this isn't _the sexiest_ calculator you've ever seen."

"I, um, can't say that I'm sexually attracted to calculators, so I am not very sure I would be the best judge of that?"

"That's 'cause you're not sexually attracted to _anything,"_ Undyne snorts, and Papyrus gives her a confirming hum.

"That's true. I am just _especially_ not sexually attracted to calculators."

Mettaton makes a 'tsk'ing sound and says, "You people don't know what you're missing out on. Calculators can give out a very good time. I speak from experience."

"Oh, my god, what the fuck," Undyne says. " _That's_ why I'm a lesbian."

Mettaton just laughs and crosses his legs; Papyrus shifts underneath him to allow the movement. "Really, though," he says, taking an SD card from where it had been stored in between the calculator and its case, "I want you two to have this. It's my treat." He tosses it to the pair at the end of the couch, and Alphys claps her hands together to catch it.

"What is this?" she says.

"Twenty hours' worth of all the home movies, of course," Mettaton says. Or, alternatively, twenty hours' worth of a small kid with a box on their head, a box with dials and a robotic display screen colored onto it in marker, running around and going on adventures. One of the movies ( _Seducing with a Killer Robot,_ an odd thing to title a movie for a child of his age, but was anyone surprised, really) consists entirely of the box-on-child amalgamate leaning back as an off-screen Napstablook throws rose petals on him. The original clip had only been one minute, because him and Napstablook had only had so many petals, but he'd looped the clip 240 times and turned it into a movie. He'd been very proud of it at the time.

"O-oh," Alphys says. "Um. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Mettaton says, and he looks at her. It's a look similar to any look he's ever given her, but to him, the look means _"I'm sorry for everything I've done to you and I'm too scared to say it yet but I will, I promise, I'm getting there and I'm trying, so take this stupid SD card and please know that it's symbolically me giving you my word that I'll fix things between us."_ He doesn't think she gets the message, but it's the thought that counts.

After the party's over (there was no party to begin with actually but whatever) and Alphys and Undyne leave, Mettaton and Papyrus sit there on the couch, and silence forms a bubble around them.

"I...have a proposal to make," Papyrus says, eventually. He looks nervous.

"Oh?" Mettaton says, and he sits up, legs still on Papyrus' thighs. "And what's that?"

"I've decided that I'm going to move in with you for a week."

Mettaton's smile fades. "Wait, what?"

"I'll admit that you're doing much better than you were even a few weeks ago, but even then, I worry about you, and I want to stay with you for a little while and help you out with some other things. It wouldn't be long, because I don't want to leave Sans by himself for too long, but. Your health is important to me as well."

They've only been dating for two weeks; that's a lot to take in. At the same time, it would only be a week, and Mettaton excites at the mere suggestion of Papyrus staying here with him, of having someone to turn to the immediate moment he starts to feel things weighing in on him, of having someone's chest to use as a pillow at night, of having someone - just - _there._

Even if only for a week.

"Yes," he hears himself breathe. "I'd be more than happy to have you here."

Papyrus smiles and takes him into his arms, and Mettaton rearranges himself so he's sitting in his lap and he kisses him, giddily and warmly and so _stupidly_ in love; he thinks about the relationship he has to him now, dependable, satisfying, supersaturated in mutual adoration and frosted over with a cocktail of trust and security and acceptance.

He thinks about Frisk, the way they've started to depend on him as a source of comfort, trust, and love. He thinks about Sans's and Napstablook's numbers in his phone, he thinks about his patented plans to make everything up to Alphys, to attempt a true friendship with Undyne as well.

Papyrus' hands are on his waist, and it's snowing outside, in the same amounts that it was when they'd first twined themselves together like this.

It's all starting to come together.


End file.
